Race Among the Ruins
by Cropper
Summary: Too much sleet, too little sleep
1. Prologue

**Title: **Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing: **GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimers:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Many, many sincere thanks to my wonderful betas: csipal and ligaras and "She who wishes to remain anonymous". These ladies are are awesome.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet

**Prologue**

"It was a dark and stormy night."

_Great. That's just...swell_, Grissom thought disdainfully. _You have all of these magnificent works of literature, philosophy and theology squirreled away for instantaneous regurgitation and you resort to quoting Snoopy. That's just fucking wonderful_. He continued to berate himself internally, sighing heavily as his silent soliloquy rambled on, a forceful explosion borne of weariness, loneliness and frustration. I_t's not the first time you have plagiarized Charles M. Schulz and it most likely will not be the last_. Sometimes a cartoon character could more precisely summarize a situation than Shakespeare, Buddha or the Book of Leviticus. Besides, Charlie Brown was one of the good guys, even if he was a total blockhead. All in all, the fat bald kid was not such a bad role model. Grissom could relate to Charlie Brown. He was not so sure that he, himself, could always be enumerated as one of the good guys, but it certainly was not a failure stemming from lack of effort. He had been trying all his life to be a good man - to do the right thing. Sometimes he succeeded and sometimes...well, he had some major regrets.

The "dark and stormy night" through which Grissom was cautiously navigating was a roiling inky black shroud lavishly adorned with harsh pounding rain, gleefully solidifying into sleet. The miserable weather served as a most fitting companion for his dank mood as he drove steadily, eating up one slick, wet asphalt mile after another. His mind wandered restlessly. Most of his concentration was steadfastly committed to the empty ribbon before him, while a smaller, more introspective grey-mattered gremlin flitted and danced, recapturing the preceding weekend that had amassed one incredible cluster fuck piled atop another. There was no end in sight...just an endless stretch of lonely slippery blacktop.

**To Be Continued...**


	2. Chapter One

**Title: **Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing: **GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimers:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Another huge shout out to my wonderful betas, csipal and ligaras, and the unnamed one.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet

**Chapter One**

Two Days Prior...Friday

The call had come in around midnight just as the Graveyard Shift was assembling for the evening. A gangland meeting had gone terribly awry and all hands were needed. As the convoy of CSI SUVs raced through the neon night with bubbletop lights pulsing in tempo with the city's garish beat, Grissom's pager literally leapt from his belt with AK rapidity as more and more alarming information became available.

**BLOOD BATH**

**SCENE NOT SECURE**

**12 DOA**

**17 WOUNDED**

**SHOTS FIRED**

**OFFICER DOWN**

**SUSPECT FLEEING ON FOOT**

**OFFICERS IN PURSUIT**

**SUSPECT APPREHENDED**

**SCENE SECURE**

"Blood Bath" did not come close to adequately describing the horror that greeted the criminalists as they surveyed the tattered interior of the rotting mansion. The scene was chaotic. It was contaminated, it was compromised carnage. It was the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre times ten.

Grissom stood in the doorway absorbing the gruesome tableau. He and his team had been called to some grisly scenes before but what shimmered before him defied description. The ancient ballroom was oozing with blood sprayed malevolently across the faded and peeling wallpaper with a darkly malicious airbrush. Bodies lay strewn about, like haphazard rag dolls some child had unthinkingly neglected to stow safely away, among well-loved stuffed animals and cherished dreams of Never Neverland. Most of the copper-spattered faces were young, registering still surprise that they lived no more. Boot and shoe prints littered the scarred parquet floor in a danse macabre traversing congealing puddles of wasted life. The seemingly aimless waltz of the dead resembled crayon markings, scribbled hopefully on a youthful treasure map. There were no riches to be found here...no gold, no silver, no doubloons, not even a glass slipper. All that remained beneath the shattered chandelier was the sickening and overpowering stench or mortality and futility.

Grissom closed his eyes. Sometimes he really hated this job. "Fuck. Just...Fuck," he muttered almost inaudibly.

Sara's eyebrows shot up. A smirk slid wonderingly across her lips as she acknowledged the validity of Grissom's crudely blunt statement. She accepted that her response was inappropriate and possibly disrespectful in view of where they were standing and what they were about to do. He so very rarely cursed, especially in front of women, that Sara simply could not contain her wry mirth. At times she found his' old fashioned and almost absent minded notions of propriety and courtesy out of step with the rest of society, but his well-intentioned manners were also endearing and uniquely Grissom. Granted, his profane utterance succinctly summed up the terrible sight before them; to hear him state the obvious in such derogatory terms was rather amusing. She nudged him gently with her elbow as they carefully made their way further into the death house.

"What?" Grissom's eyebrows raised inquisitively as he drank in Sara's look of morbid delight.

She held the half grin, knowing he would understand that she was impishly chiding him for his coarse language and not making light of the wanton destruction a few feet away.

"Sometimes...well, I thought...it seemed...fitting," he mumbled while offering a somewhat helpless shrug. "Sometimes, Sara, 'fuck' is the only word I have." Grissom sighed. "Ready?"

Sara looked around, squared her shoulders and gave a firm resolute nod. They both accepted it for the lie that it was. No one, not even the most hardened and seasoned of souls, was ever ready for an urban blitzkrieg of such monstrous proportions.

The ballroom, despite the intrusive activities of the CSIs, was eerily quiet, as if those assembled feared to break the awesome stillness. Paramedics had already removed the dead and dying, their cries of despair little more now than muffled echoes of agony spiriting among the mangled corpses of fallen comrades. Doc, David and a host of volunteers from Desert Palms, interns and others on call for disaster situations, loitered beyond the fluttering crime tape while waiting for Grissom and Sara to finish the preliminary photo documentation. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. So many frames to be shot, so many bodies to be catalogued, so many losses to be measured. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. ZOOM. FOCUS. CLICK. FLASH. The whirring of the motor drives were the only notes shattering the surreal symphony of silence.

Doc directed the grim task of wrapping and preparing the young men for their final ride, a one way journey to a cold steel gurney and frigid solitary drawer. As the black-bagged corpses were wheeled out and the solemn procession began its winding journey through Lady Luck's heartless domain, Warrick and Greg stoically went about the business of collecting footwear from anyone and everyone who had walked into or even around the manse. They had to deal with the emergency personnel, police officers, several pushy photographers and reporters who had tried to force their way past the Thin Blue Line. Their last task before returning the evidence to the lab would be to travel to the hospital to collect the clothing and other possibly probative effects of the seventeen injured bangers and lone wounded officer. Nick and Catherine handled cartridge/casing collection and used a laptop and other sophisticated scientific gadgets to painstakingly reconstruct the virtual crime scene. Grissom and Sara continued shooting and swabbing. Photos and blood were their responsibility.

The work was tedious, monotonous and utterly time consuming. The cloying stench of ripening blood permeated their pores, hovered at the brink of their collective consciousness, invaded their thoughts and clung to their clothing. Acrid residue of spent gunpowder tickled their tastebuds, tainted their water and spiked their coffee. There would be no refreshment, no replenishment, no respite. The wicked, all-encompassing double edged assault on their senses could neither be ignored nor forgotten.

All of Graveyard Shift had worked well into a double when Grissom shocked his criminalists by imposing a rotating schedule of eight hours on, eight hours off. Not only did Grissom's revolving door provide for round the clock coverage with regard to the ongoing investigation but also reflected the kinder, gentler approach he had adopted with his reunited team. Catherine and Greg were the first to be sent home at noon Saturday and the expressions on their faces as they were shooed away from the scene were almost laughable. Yes, his people were shocked and he was behaving a bit out of character. Grissom was not about to explain his actions or let the team know how deeply he cared about them as individuals and not just as CSIs. If asked, he could calmly and logically argue that he was just ensuring that fresh eyes would always be available to assess the evidence and that he was doing what was best for the good of the lab, to bring about a speedy resolution to a high profile case and public relations nightmare.

Only Sara resisted. The rest of the crew had taken their time off eagerly, not wanting to ask too many questions should Grissom change his mind. Sara stuck her chin out with stubborn obstinacy and refused to leave.

"Sara, go home. Take a break. You've earned it." Grissom kept his tone soft, the intimate voice he seemed to unconsciously adopt whenever the two were engaged in a private conversation. "I will think no less of your talents or work ethic if you take a little nap."

Sara shook her head, a firm voiceless NO. "I'm fine, Grissom."

"No, Sara. Go home and get some rest. I'd rather have your return sharp than stumble around half asleep."

"What about you, Gris?" she impudently asked while fixing her boss with a baleful stare. "You're just as tired as the rest of us and I didn't see your name anywhere on that list you have stuffed in your pocket."

Grissom unflinchingly met her relentless gaze and refused to respond.

Sara tapped her foot impatiently. "Well...?"

"When we wrap the scene, I'll go. Until then..." Grissom's voice trailed off, knowing Sara would understand what remained unspoken. "Sara, go. Please?"

"I'll go, but with one condition."

He quirked an eyebrow, highly amused that she was haggling over sleep.

"If I have to take a break, so do you."

"Sara," he began, lightly rebuking. "Nagging does not become you."

Sara looked at him blankly for a moment, slightly stunned by his seemingly off-hand remark. She shook her head before resuming her entreaty. "Grissom, I'm serious about this! Look, I know you won't leave but I'll go off to my apartment and twiddle my thumbs for the next eight hours if you'll go sit in the truck and close your eyes for a measly thirty minutes. I'm not leaving until you do. And...I'm not a nag!" The last statement was uttered in a pique of outrage with hands fisted on hips and almost imperceptible glint of irrepressible humor shining around the edges of her otherwise withering glare. Grissom immediately recognized her body language and knew that Sara was not going to budge. This was one battle he had absolutely no chance of winning. When Sara burrowed down into a foxhole for the long haul his preserved fetal pigs had a better chance of performing impossible aeronautical maneuvers than Grissom did of changing Sara's mind.

"Yes, dear," he huffed grudgingly, a minute trace of laughter twinkling in his eyes at Sara's perplexed reaction. Sara was a nag, an utterly adorable nag. Strangely enough, the old married couple comfort derived from such small yet memorable moments did not frighten or confuse Grissom any longer. He openly embraced Sara's attempts to coddle and care for him, reveling in the primal glory of someone taking the time to focus on his needs as a man, not as a scientist or a supervisor. Many barren years, arid as the surrounding desert had passed since anyone had cared for him as an individual, or perhaps, more truthfully, he had allowed anyone to care. He dutifully ambled off to stretch out in the back seat of the Denali for his mandatory thirty-minute time out, noticing with warmth and affection that Sara had leaned back against the hood of his truck. She was standing guard, his self-appointed sentry. Grissom was not certain whether she was making sure he actually rested or taking measures to see that he was not disturbed. Her motivation was largely unimportant. What mattered was that Sara still cared.

Sara's mind wandered as she folded her lean arms across her chest and reclined against the SUV, a watchful bulldog ready to repel any and all vultures foolish enough to try to disturb Grissom. He was going to rest even if a brief power nap was all he would permit himself to enjoy. Although she would never admit it, Sara was bone tired and knew that Grissom had to be exhausted as well. She could tell by his posture and stretching that his knees were achy and the muscles in his strong thighs were beginning to tremble slightly with exertion from the excessive strain of constant stooping, kneeling and crawling. Her own legs were as heavy and clumsy as lead pillars and Gris' legs had fifteen years and hundreds more punishing miles on the odometer. He deserved to rest as much as his team but Sara understood that he would not even begin to think of his own needs until the scene was released.

The hours passed, the sun settled down, the other criminalists came and went and Grissom remained. And remained. And remained. Twenty-four hours after the initial processing commenced he was finally convinced that every droplet, fiber, casing, etc. had been retrieved and relinquished his hold on the slaughterhouse. Lord, he was tired, but still had several more hours of work to accomplish before he could even begin to contemplate taking a break. Evidence still had to be logged in and turned over to the proper technicians for more detailed analysis. He had to bring his team together for a conference in order to find out the status of the on-going investigation and see what new information, if any, his people had managed to uncover. Grissom realized that he could, and probably should delegate some of the tasks on his mental To Do list but it was his job to tend to the details. Evidence on his watch was not going to get tossed because rules and procedures were not followed. He was the boss...it was his job, it was his life.


	3. Chapter 2

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Sincere thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review thus far. Your time and efforts are greatly appreciated. csipal, ligaras and She Who Must Not Be Named? The coffee and donuts are on me.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Two**

Grissom finally bade his criminalists farewell and lumbered away from the lab a little before nine on Sunday morning. As he drove home, sunglasses shielding him from the glaring sunlight, he listened to various denominational church bells summoning stragglers to worship. He was a philosophic man, a deeply spiritual man and on this seventh day, this biblically proclaimed day of rest, Grissom deemed it fitting that all he could muster the energy to contemplate was a blisteringly hot shower to relieve his aching muscles and screaming joints and the soft welcoming embrace of his blankets and pillows. Everything else, including thoughts of mortality, the deeper meaning of life after death, love, loss and the capricious nature of fleeing time would have to wait. He was getting far too old to pull all-nighters. He was getting far too old for a lot of things.

Two and a half hours into his desperately sought after sleep, Grissom's cell phone started blaring. For a moment, as he muzzily tried to shake the vestiges of a half-formed dream from his weary mind, he seriously considered turning off the infernal device and rolling back over, but knew that he could not indulge in such simple fancy. He was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It was his job, it was his life. Hopefully, whatever dire emergency had dared interrupt his slumber was something that could be handled from the snuggly sanctuary of his bed. Grissom was in no shape, physically or mentally, to return to work.

The call was an emergency request from authorities upstate near Elko. Weekend adventurers hiking a rather obscure trail had discovered a decomposing body rife with insect activity. The bug guy was needed ASAP, and there was no way Grissom could refuse. He was the bug guy and had to go wherever he was needed whenever he was needed. He had no choice. It was his job, it was his life. The locals had secured him a spot on a commuter flight that left in the next hour and would have a rental car waiting as well. All Grissom had to do was haul his creaky bones out of bed, grab another quick shower, his kit, a cup of really strong coffee and call a cab. He was not sure that he could safely drive. And, he should call someone at the lab to let them know that he was leaving Vegas for an undetermined period of time. He honestly did not think that anyone would necessarily care that he was gone, but he wanted to let them know that if they needed him he would only be available either telephonically or via his omnipresent pager.

Grissom had no difficulty in deciding that Sara would be the one to call. Catherine would just be returning to duty following an eight hour respite and busy relishing in the control of her temporary authority. Lord, the woman could act like a bitch on a stick when handed a little power. Machiavelli must have had Catherine in mind when writing that absolute power corrupted absolutely. Or was it something about the best way to govern rising through fraud and force? Grissom shook his head ruefully as he dialed his cell. He could not think clearly enough to properly cite his sources.

"Sidle." Clearly Sara was at work and her brusqueness in answering proved that she was in full professional CSI mode.

"Hello, Sara."

"Hey Grissom. Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" she asked suspiciously. "Checking up on us?"

"Nag, nag, nag," he shot back humorously. "Yes, I'm supposed to be sleeping but unfortunately a body full of insects up near Elko takes precedence right now. I'm headed to the airport as we speak."

"Elko? That's pretty far upstate."

"Somewhere near there. I think that they said the actual scene was up in the mountains someplace."

"How long are you going to be gone?" Sara's tone was slipping from professional to personal.

"As long as it takes."

Sara could not ignore the absolute exhaustion tempering Grissom's voice. She hesitated just a heartbeat before quietly beseeching,"Can't somebody else do this for once? You just pulled what, a quadruple? Can't you take a later flight or something and get some sleep?"

"Sara, I can't," he began with affectionate exasperation, "you know that. I'm the only entomologist in the area and I have no choice."

"Yeah, well, the body isn't going to get at deader or the bugs any buggier," she saucily responded. Grissom huffed a small chuckle as Sara continued to scold him. "And, you know, you do have a choice. Just say no, Gris."

"I stopped having choices a long time ago, Sara, a lifetime ago. All I have left now are obligations...duties...responsibilities. They're all I know."

A moment, one in which Grissom could feel thick electricity thrumming excitedly through his cell, passed before Sara silkily queried, "Would you like to have choices, Grissom?" Her voice was a low- pitched purr, a sensual grumble that reverberated through his ear and resonated around his heart.

Sara was plunging headfirst into perilous waters, very, very treacherous and tempestuous swirling seas. Grissom would love to have choices, infinite, intimate possibilities where Sara was concerned. Would Sara still be receptive to his bumbling overtures, his awkward attempts at courting? For all of her brash, flirtatious talk of late, for all of her recent pushing and goading, Grissom had the sinking feeling that he was the one who was going to have to toss out the ring in one last desperate attempt to save any foundering prospect of a deeper and more rewarding relationship. Was losing Sara worth the risk of stripping down, laying himself bare one more time in a fruitless search for...love?

"Maybe," he hedged, clearly uncomfortable with the path the conversation had taken. "Sometimes I feel..."

"What?"

"I don't know," he snapped in aggravation before gentling his tone. "That I have no control anymore?"

"Over what?"

Sara was not making this easy for him. However, the honesty rang through his voice as he responded somewhat vaguely, "Things that matter. Look," he continued in a rush, "I'm at the airport and have to go. If you need me, call my cell or page me. I'll see you soon."

Grissom boarded the small commuter flight, settled into the uncomfortable seat and took some time to reflect upon his chat with Sara. He must be more fatigued than he realized or Sara was just getting better at punching through his walls. She was a strong woman and had proved herself quite capable of effectively wielding a sledge hammer. The stone edifice was crumbling quickly and Grissom did not give a damn about reapplying his protective mortar.

Grissom arrived in Elko, picked up his rental car and drove two hours into the wilderness in search of the crime scene. It was raining, it was miserable and the only vehicle Elko's Finest had been able to procure for him on such short notice was a lousy compact with a manual transmission. He was well aware of the fact that his normally less than sterling social skills were more caustic than usual. He was grumpy and short tempered. He knew that the locals were not to blame for the uncooperative weather and sardine can of a car in which he was forced to travel. The locals were not to blame because he was operating on nothing more than caffeine, adrenaline and one badly needed cigarette. Grissom had given up the habit years ago but every now and then the nicotine cravings clawed relentlessly and when he was worn, frustrated and utterly demoralized he caved...bought a pack of smokes and lit up. He knew all of these things in the rational side of his brain yet childishly wanted someone to blame, to accost with an accusing finger jab to the sternum. His internal resources were dangerously close to empty and by the time he started collecting and processing his beloved insects, he was barely functional.

He toiled solidly for the next ten hours, resolutely stowing all emotion and enervation aside to concentrate on the task at hand. Somebody, somewhere, was relying upon him for closure, to solve the riddle and exact some measure of justice for this as yet nameless, faceless loved one. He could not, would not disappoint that anonymous family. He had spent nearly forty-five solitary years in a lonely thankless quest to not fail, to not disappoint. He had stumbled several times and fallen short of the finish line but always staggered to his feet to lurch onward. He fervently hoped that his analysis and rudimentary time line would provide the authorities in Elko with enough clues and hard information to successfully close the file on John Doe #18-06.

By the time Grissom checked into a dismally tacky roadside inn he was operating solely on autopilot. He collapsed on the bed fully clothed, pausing only long enough to unlace and kick off his mud-caked boots before burrowing beneath the scratchy covers. He did not care that his clothing was still damp from the rain, that the knees and legs of his jeans were smeared with rich, black mountain loam or that the bedding he was sprawled across was far from clean and faintly reeked of tobacco. He did not care that his stomach growled noisily and begged for something more substantial and nutritious than cup after cup of wretched Cop Shop coffee. He did not even care that, in a moment of abject weakness, he had given into his loneliness and called Sara on the pretense of updating her on his activities, estimated return to Vegas and inquiries into how the gangland shooting case was progressing, when, in reality, he had just wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice. No, all Grissom cared about was finally closing his bleary eyes and drifting off into a hopefully dreamless and peaceful sleep.

Scarcely three hours had passed before the cell phone once again jarred Grissom into unwelcome wakefulness. Ruthlessly squelching the demonic urge to hurl the trumpeting harbinger of offensive technology against the nearest pastel pink wall, he jabbed the talk button with brute force and snarled, "Grissom!"

"Oh, hey, Gil. It's Catherine. Did I wake you?" Catherine was struggling to sound innocent. She knew without a doubt that she had pulled Grissom from slumber...could hear the think resonance of sleep in his annoyed bark.

Grissom's response was blandly neutral, "mmmmm." If Catherine was calling, whatever news she had to share could not be good.

Before he had time to prop himself against the headboard and arrange the pillows behind his back, Catherine launched into a rabid dissertation of the current lab conditions. "You really need to finish whatever it is you are doing up there and get your ass back to the lab. The Mayor, Sheriff and Ecklie are all climbing the walls and the team has had little or no rest since you took off. I can't rotate the shift because you left us short-handed and quite frankly, we all need a break." Catherine had barely paused to breathe.

Grissom groaned. "Catherine," he began patiently, "you have yourself and four other criminalists Tell Ecklie that you will need coverage from swing or days to process new cases that come in while the five of you concentrate on the gang shooting. Even with a rotation, you should have adequate coverage."

"Well, that's all well and good, Gil," Catherine started, clearly annoyed by what she thought was an attempt to patronize her, "but you are overlooking one thing. When am I supposed to rest?"

Ah! So that was the real reason Catherine was pushing him so hard. SHE wanted a little time off. He should have known. This had nothing to do with the team and everything to do with Catherine; the woman was all about herself, looking out for number one. She was prattling on about Lindsey, her mother and something that sounded like a date she was going to have to reschedule, but Grissom tuned her out. He did not care about Catherine's personal life right then and there. He cared about getting some rest. His annoyance was evident when he all but snapped back at her.

"Look, Cath. Start six hour rotations. You take off three hours into Greg's and Sara's downtime and return halfway into Warrick's and Nick's. This really is not all that difficult."

"In theory, that's a good idea," Catherine spat back. "However, the Sheriff wants a supervisor here at all times. Since you are off God knows where fooling around with your precious bugs, I'm stuck."

There was truly no rest for the wicked. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the one. What was it he had told Sara? That his life was nothing more than duty and obligation? That he had no choices, no control? He was tired, bone tired. He honestly could not remember the last time he felt so weary, so old.

"All right, Cath, you win." Grissom could just imagine the smug smile gracing her lips. "Let me get myself together and I'll start back. I probably can't get a flight so I'll have to drive. I'll call you back and let you know."

Catherine sensed the resignation in his voice and slithered into the quasi-mothering attitude she seemed to adopt when concerned about him. "Gil, have you slept?"

"Not really. A couple of hours. Does it matter?" Grissom hung up without giving Catherine a chance to respond or even bidding her farewell. It was petulant and petty but he was just not in the mood to deal with Catherine and all of her associated drama.

He packed up and headed out, stopping at a Gas 'n Sip for a refill of coffee and a stale bagel. He eased out onto the highway before hitting the speed dial on his cell to call Sara. He knew that he should call Catherine but did not want to, did not feel like expending anymore time or effort on her. Sara, on the other hand, Sara he did want to talk to, even if just for a moment. Sara made him feel young and practically invincible.

"Sidle."

Grissom could not help but grin when she answered. Sometimes just hearing her melodious alto truly brightened his life. "Hey," he responded.

"It's the Bugman!" Her greeting was tinged with genuine warmth and humor. For a quick moment Grissom heard the theme song from the '60's campy Adam West television series with Bugman inserted where Batman should have been pounding between his temples. Only Sara could get away with calling him Bugman. Others might refer to him as the bug guy or something similar but only Sara could actually use the term as a title or nickname and not suffer glowering repercussions. Sara continued speaking, interrupting his bizarre musings and bringing him back to the conversation. "How's it going? You through playing with your many-legged little friends?"

"I finished a couple of hours ago. The locals can handle it now and know how to find me if they have any questions or problems." He took a sip of his lousy convenience store coffee before delving into the real purpose of the call. "Will you tell Catherine I'm on the road? And warn her that I am driving so it will take awhile?"

"Sure, but why don't you just tell her yourself? You two get into a fight or something?"

"No, nothing like that," he sighed tiredly. "I just don't have the energy to deal with Catherine when she's got her knickers knotted."

Sara could not help but chuckle at that outlandish mental image. "Thanks for the visual, Grissom. I so don't need to think about Catherine's unmentionables, twisted or not. There are some places I really don't need to go." There was a delightful pause before Sara continued. "Kinckers? Really?"

Grissom snorted. "I honestly wouldn't know. I've never seen Catherine's undergarments."

"Not even a glimpse? Never walked in on her in the locker room? Never peeked in her laundry hamper?"

"Nope."

A comfortable silence ensued before Sara felt compelled to speak again. The concern in her voice was unmistakable.

"Hey," she started softly. "You sure that you're okay to drive? You don't sound like you've slept at all."

"I'm fine, Sara. I caught a quick nap." Grissom was not about to admit that he probably should not be driving, that his nap had done nothing to relieve the persistent exhaustion dogging his every thought and movement. Sara did not need to know that the idea of returning to see her was his prime motivation, what was keeping him going.

"All right," she replied doubtfully. "Look," she continued seriously, "if you start to get tired either pull off or give me a call. I'll be happy to talk to you and keep you awake."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Gris, I'm not fooling around here. Promise me that you will call if you start to nod off."

"Sara, I know that you are serious, and, you are nagging again. But, I...promise. If I need you, I will call. Goodbye, Sara."

"Bye, Bugman."

He had to smile. Only Sara.

Grissom ended the call and powered down his cell. He tucked the phone, along with his glasses, into the pocket of his FORENSICS windbreaker and carelessly tossed the jacket onto the passenger seat. The unrelenting drizzle that had been his constant chilling companion started to not only increase in intensity but also solidify into spitting sleet as the evening temperatures continued to wane. Grissom did not want an ill-timed summons from his phone to distract or pull his attention away from the road at a potentially inopportune moment. The driving conditions were abysmal and Gris needed to stay completely focused on the highway before him. One minute lapse could prove deadly.

The well-paved path from his tawdry mountain aerie was treacherous and fraught with curves. Visibility was practically nonexistent and the slap-slapping of the windshield wipers could scarcely repel the stinging pellets of ice pinging a relentless staccato rhythm on the roof of the car. Grissom was forced to blast the defroster on maximum heat in an attempt to melt the slush clinging to the singing rubber blades. He had the road to himself. All other travelers apparently had either the common sense to stay indoors or pull off at a greasy spoon truck stop to wait out the storm. Grissom did not have the luxury of stopping and waiting; an angry, hissing Cat flexing perfectly manicured claws impatiently anticipated his return, a Cat that would hopefully be placated with a few well-placed verbal strokes along the stiffly arching ridge of her temper followed by a gentle nudge homeward to relax in the comfort of her tastefully appointed kitty condo.

Grissom quieted his mounting irritation, sternly suppressing his uncharitable thoughts as the road slithered downward and disappeared into a black chasm swallowed by the mountain looming to his left. Glaring headlights suddenly thundering and piercing the icy gloom blinded Grissom. An 18-wheeler grinding with exertion on its uphill trek came churning towards the small rental car, swerving perilously across the sleet-slickened asphalt. Gris could only react, veering sharply to his right in an attempt to avoid the behemoth bearing down upon him. He had no way of knowing that this particular stretch of road provided no wide shoulder upon which to lean, just a rusting guard rail to protect him from an unseen cavern below. The abrupt jerking of the steering wheel combined with a spectacularly uneven grade between the main road and shoulder sent Grissom careening into the guard rail and plummeting end over impossible end down the mountain. The cheap economy car was no match for the rugged terrain through which it helplessly churned like a tiny pebble in a tumbler before slamming to a premature halt against a large boulder.

In the silence of the dreadful aftermath touched only by settling groans of horribly twisted steel and man, the semi continued its gear-stripping journey, blissfully unaware of the tragedy below, oblivious to the peril of a lone wayfarer trapped, bleeding and unconscious a few hundred yards down the slope. For Grissom, it was lights out. Good night, sweetheart. God Bless.

**To Be Continued...**


	4. Chapter 3

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Thank you, csipal, ligaras and the Beta to be Named Later. You all are the greatest.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Three**

"Hey! Has anyone heard from Grissom?"

Sara's inquiry was met with stony silence. Catherine and Warrick knowingly rolled their eyes at each other and returned to their work.

"Cat?" Sara persisted.

Catherine looked up from the layout table and blew her hair out of her eyes in exasperation. "What, am I his keeper now?" she snapped. "You're the one that has been all Tammy Talksalot with him lately. I haven't talked to him since I told him to get his ass out of bed and back down here. He's a grown man, Sara. He'll be here when he gets here."

'MEOW,' thought Sara as she forcefully swallowed back a sarcastic retort. The kitty Cat was a lioness on the prowl. Nerves were frayed, tempers on edge and everyone, including herself, would be better served if she just ignored Catherine's slightly superior tone and refused to engage in a pissing contest with the older woman. Sara could not help but wonder if part of Cat's general snarkiness was due to the fact that she was starting to feel guilty about making Grissom return when the man had probably only slept roughly six out of the last sixty plus hours.

Sara's brows crinkled in thought as she considered out loud, "That was what, ten, twelve hours ago?"

"Yeah, something like that," Warrick chimed in tiredly.

Warrick and Catherine were trying to reconstruct the shooting while Sara was mapping the victims based on blood spatter and foot prints. Nick and Greg, currently out on a deli run, were awaiting ballistics comparisons to try to pinpoint what shot was fired from where and by whom.

"Still, he should be back by now," Sara mused. "I think I'm going to call him and find out where he is. He so should not be missing out on all this fun," she said with a smirk.

Sara punched her speed dial, missing the knowing look exchanged by her coworkers, and was surprised when she received an instant patch to Grissom's prerecorded "leave your name" blah, blah, blah greeting.

"That's odd. He's not answering."

"What do you mean, he's not answering," Catherine asked, looking up from her task once again. "He always picks up even if he is still asleep."

"His phone isn't even on. It just goes straight to voice mail," Sara worriedly exclaimed.

Catherine thought a minute before saying, "well, maybe he hit a rest stop or something to catch a quick nap."

"Or, maybe he had to pull of to grab a coffee and heed the call of nature," Warrick supplied helpfully. "Why don't you try his pager?"

Sara looked doubtfully at Warrick but punched in the pager number before trying his cell again. She redialed, and redialed, and redialed. "Come on, Grissom," she growled to herself. "Turn on your damn phone."

**To Be Continued...**


	5. Chapter 4

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Thank you, csipal, ligaras and Lord Betamort. I appreciate all of your diligent efforts.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Four**

Grissom slowly surfaced, returning to the land of the living most reluctantly. He had been blissfully content in the realm of enforced darkness, a warm cocoon as caressingly comforting as his childhood pillow. He had hoped that it had all been a dream, a nightmare brought about by too little sleep, and that he would roll over to find the utterly tacky décor of the roadside motel waiting to greet him like a new found friend. Alas, this was not meant to be. The crashing waves of agony beginning to undulate throughout his battered body laughingly reassured him that his downfall was all too real.

He attempted to assess his current condition and immediately realized that he was in trouble. His left arm and hand were tightly wedged between the driver's door and steering wheel and his chest felt as if it had been crushed in a giant vice. The air bag had failed to deploy and at some point on Mr. Toad's wild ride down the mountain, he had been slammed relentlessly into the steering column. He could taste the bitter metallic tincture of blood in his mouth but did not know if he had simply bitten his tongue or if the copper residue spoke of injuries more serious than he cared to contemplate. Both of his legs were hopelessly pinned. The dash had crumpled like an aluminum soda can and the front end of the tiny car had caved in upon itself. Grissom knew that he was not going anywhere on his own; he was trapped. Rounding out his misery was a headache worse than any migraine he had ever suffered. His close-cropped curls felt sticky and wet and from he could tell he had slammed his head against the B pillar when the hapless seat belt had snapped free from its mooring. He needed help and he needed it fast. The sleet had turned back to rain but that was little consolation. The weather was still bitingly frigid and the mangled vehicle provided little shelter from the storm.

As Grissom battled to adjust to the physical torment waxing and waning with each shuddering breath, a thought scuttled through his tortured mind. He knew that he was supposed to do something important, had sworn an oath to call someone if he needed help. Who? Who had cared enough to exact a promise of such magnitude?

Phone...where was his phone? Grissom had a vague, wispy memory of stuffing his cell and reading glasses in the pocket of his navy windbreaker. A quick glance down at the claret spatters freckling the front of his shirt served as a reminder that he had shed the damp article when settling in for the long drive home. He forced his weakened gaze around the murky interior of the vehicle in a desperate search for the missing jacket. The haziness fogging his mind hampered his quest but he finally caught a glimpse of the desired item resting in the footwell beneath the passenger seat. He groped over and down with a shaky right had but could not get so much as a finger nail on the elusive nylon garment. Salvation was just beyond his grasp, as it had always been, a recurring rhythm of his life.

Grissom lunged and strained, unable to free his left arm from the tenacious grip of the steering wheel. He had to get his jacket, he had to get his phone, he was supposed to call someone, he promised to call someone. He was completely consumed by this repeated mental chant and his movements grew more frantic and aggressive as the volume in his mind intensified. Jacket, phone, call, promise. Jacket, phone, call, promise. The tempo was unrelenting, unappeasable. Finally, with a gut-wrenching lurch, the joint in his left shoulder ceded to his single-minded effort with a sickening gristle-snapping pop. He had savagely torn the ball from its nestling socket but had miraculously gained just enough movement to allow him to pinch his index and middle finger to the collar of the coat and haul it to what little lap he had available.

_Fuck, that hurt_, Grissom thought as he waited, panting, to adjust to this new fireball of pain whistling through his frame. He was accustomed to abuse; physical punishment was no stranger, but his mind was still so very cloudy. What was he supposed to do? He was supposed to call someone. He had promised to call someone. Why could he not figure this out? He needed to concentrate. The answer was there, lurking just beyond the confusion. He needed to solve this riddle. His life, it seemed, depended on him finding the answer. Who? Who was he supposed to call? He had made a promise and he would not fail. Who would he have done something like that for? He powered up the phone and Sara's name danced across the dimly illuminated screen. Sara? That's it. He was supposed to call Sara. Sara was the only person to whom he would make such a promise.

Sara was absorbed in her work, one part of her mind firmly adhered to the evidence, the other growing steadily apprehensive as her efforts to contact her boss went unrewarded. She was so startled when her cell phone rang that she nearly knocked it off the table in her haste to grab the instrument and check the Caller ID. Yes! Finally!

"Grissom!" Sara yelled scathingly into her phone. "Where the hell are you? You should have been here hours ago."

Silence greeted her tirade. All Sara could hear was Grissom's labored breathing panting in her ear. Her eyes widened as she realized that something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong and Grissom was in trouble.

"Grissom?" she queried a little more cautiously.

""Hi." Sara could easily detect the confusion and pain in his voice. She purposefully couched her mounting concern into a cheerful, conversational tone.

"Hey," she resumed brightly. "There you are. What's up?"

"Nothing." Grissom's response was little more than a whisper.

"Where are you, Gris?"

"Huh?"

"Where are you?"

"Don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? Did you pull off for a little nap? Did you conveniently forget that you promised to call?" she scolded.

"No."

Despite her intentions to keep things light, Sara's was unable to fully hide her frustration. Attempting to carry on a conversation with Grissom could often be as painful as a root canal under optimal conditions and the current exchange was passing into full fledged wisdom tooth extraction. "Come on, Mr. Monosyllabic. Help me out here. What's going on?"

Grissom huffed a bit before carefully responding, "Don't...nag. Not wife...yet."

Sara eyes widened and her eyebrows soared in shock. Okay, either Grissom was really out of it or... She did not have time to ride that train of thought as Gris puffed out another one-word grunt.

"Car."

She gave her head a single shake to stop the reeling. "You're in the car. Where's the car?"

"Trees."

"Trees?"

Catherine and Warrick had been listening to Sara's half of the conversation with growing amusement. They were unaware of the gravity foundering on the other end of the air waves and as far as they were concerned it sounded as if Sara was attempting to interrogate an uncooperative wino witness in the drunk tank. The fact that Grissom was the "wino" merely added to the hilarity.

"Wreck," Grissom managed to state bluntly. "Accident."

"You were in an accident? Are you hurt?" Sara's alto began screeching into the mezzo-soprano range as terror gripped the walls of her abdomen.

"Mmmhmm."

"Shit!" Sara barked. This was not good. This was so not good. The grins flirting with Warrick and Catherine quickly morphed to expressions of surprise and concern. They stood and diverted their complete attention to Sara and the injured man to whom she was interrogating.

"Grissom? Where does it hurt?"

"Don't know," he moaned. Talking was growing more difficult with each passing moment.

"Can you be just a little more specific, Babe?"

'Babe?' The unintentional endearment fleetingly registered as Grissom battled his incessantly increasing pain in an effort to communicate.

"Left arm...Chest...Legs...Head...Enough?"

Oh, yeah. That was more than enough. She did not want to ask but overwhelming concern compelled her to continue. "Is there more?"

"Don't know. Pinned. Trapped. Need you, Sara."

"Gris, do you know where you are?"

A long pause ensued before Grissom replied with a simple, defeated, "no."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Umm...sleet. Concen...concentrating on road."

"Is that why you turned your cell off? So you wouldn't be distracted?"

An affirmative grunt was all Grissom could manage before stammering in a panicked voice, "Need you...Don't...Think...Sick."

"Grissom," Sara began before the unmistakable sound of retching filled her ear. A head injury accompanied by vomiting was not good. She needed to do something fast. To distract both herself and Grissom from his current illness, Sara continued talking as she briskly made her way to the AV Lab. "Gris? I want you to keep the line open. You can stop talking but please don't end the call. I am going to take my phone to Archie so he can work his kung fu voodoo magic and tell us where to kind you. Okay?"

Grissom's acknowledgment was barely discernible. "Kay."

"Hang in there, baby. I'm coming to get you."

Something dark and feral leapt fiercely within Grissom's soul. Sara had once again slipped and her offhand use of the term "Baby" sent him spiraling backwards to another place and time, a very unhappy and woefully ugly place and time.

"I'm...not...a...baby." Each word was harshly ground through gritted teeth. The effort to finish the age-old incantation was pulling him back under. "I'm...a...big...boy...now."

Sara stared at the phone in her hand as if it were a deadly cobra poised to strike. What had just happened? What the hell was Grissom talking about? A big boy now? Oh, there was a nice juicy story lurking just below the surface, of that Sara had no doubt. Gris was hauling around some seriously wicked baggage and dancing skeletons were starting to emerge from the dark. The man must have cracked his thick skull harder than he was willing to admit if he allowed something that intensely personal slip through the cracks. Her concern for Grissom's well-being cranked another notch higher but Sara was having a hard time pushing back her raging curiosity. This was neither the time nor the place to go around rattling the doorknobs of Grissom's locked closets. She desperately needed to keep him calm, to keep him with her. She needed _her baby _and was not about to let him go without one hellacious fight. The "big boy" would have to wait.

**To Be Continued...**


	6. Chapter 5

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Sincere thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review thus far. Your time and efforts are greatly appreciated. csipal, ligaras and Darth Beta are the best.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Five**

The phrase kept reverberating through Grissom's throbbing brain. "I'm not a baby, I'm a big boy now." Why had he let it slip, why had he told Sara one of his oldest secrets? He started drifting back to the beginning, back to when his heart had first been broken and morose darkness had begun to filter through the irreparable cracks to choke out the light. He faded back to when the first blow fell and the little boy died.

_He was five now. It was his fifth birthday and it was huge. He would be starting school for the first time in a few days. Turning five meant that he was officially a "big boy" and not a baby any longer. He was so proud of himself. His little chest was all puffed out and he was strutting about like the proverbial peacock. Mama had gone all out to make his big day and his party special. There was cake, ice cream and lemonade, balloons, hats and streamers, relay races, bean bag toss and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. All of his playmates from the neighborhood had been invited. It was everything an energetic little boy could hope for._

_He had asked for a bicycle. It was the only thing he wanted. All of his friends had shiny two-wheelers with cardboard trading cards affixed to the gleaming spokes of the rear wheels with purloined wooden clothespins. He was always left sitting alone on the curb when they rode off to their far-away adventures. Granted, they only went a block or two away, but to him it seemed like a whole new world. He could not run fast enough to keep up and they refused to wait for him. So he sat and waited and amused himself by watching the insects go about their business. He waited, for hours it seemed like, until they returned and he would be allowed to play again. He really, really wanted a bicycle._

_Daddy did not get him a bicycle. Daddy gave him a big heavy book all about plants and trees. He did not want a stupid ugly book. He wanted a bicycle! He was so disappointed and tried valiantly not to let it show. He knew that Daddy loved teaching about plants and knew that Daddy wanted to teach him all about plants, too. But, dang it, he wanted a bicycle, and just for a moment, let his smile slip. It was just for a second or two, but long enough for Daddy to see. Nothing was said and the party continued._

_Later, when he was wriggling into his Roy Rogers jammies, Daddy called him back out into the living room. That was strange. Daddy usually sat on his bed to listen to his prayers. Mama wasn't in the living room with Daddy. That was strange, too. He didn't see Mama anywhere. Daddy was standing next to his easy chair snapping his thick, black leather dress belt between his large hands. Daddy told him to drop his pajama pants and underpants and lay across the arm of the chair. He was an obedient boy. He did as he was told._

_The first blow was unexpected, a great stinging slap that made the five-year-old yelp with pain and outrage._

"_Shut up! Shut up and take it like a man! You're not a baby anymore!"_

_He buried his face in the cushion of the chair so Daddy would not hear him cry. He did not want to make Daddy mad. He was a good boy. He tried so hard to be good. He wanted Daddy and Mama to be proud of him. _

_He did not remember how many times Daddy hit him. It could have been one slash or it could have been twenty. The number was largely unimportant. What mattered, what really hurt was the fact that Daddy had never, ever spanked him before. He was a good boy! He didn't even know why Daddy was hitting him. It was his birthday! You are not supposed to get in trouble on your birthday! It is supposed to be special and fun and exciting. It is not supposed to be painful and humiliating._

_Finally, it ended. He did not know if Daddy's arm had gotten tired or if Daddy felt like he had been properly punished. To this day he did not know. Daddy merely told him to go to bed. He surreptitiously wiped his tears and runny nose on the chair cushion and pulled up his underpants and cowboy pajama bottoms. He timidly thanked Daddy, bade him goodnight and slunk off to his room._

_OH! It hurt! The underpants, pajama bottoms and sheets just made it worse. He wanted so badly to shuck his drawers and let his fiery cheeks cool down in the soft summer breeze trickling through his open bedroom window. That would only get him into more trouble. Mama would not be happy if she came in and found his naked hiney glowing red in the night. Mama always said that polite people don't sleep naked. Mama told him over and over again that proper people always wore their pajamas. He was a polite and proper person. He was a good boy. He could not sleep in the raw no matter how hot it was or how much his ass might hurt. Sleeping in the buff was unseemly and common. Mama always harped on him about his manners and about how important it was to be courteous. As far as Mama was concerned, being well-mannered and polite was just as important as learning to read and write, maybe more so._

_Where was Mama? Where had Mama been hiding while Daddy hurt him? Mama had always comforted him when the monsters snuck into his dreams or he fell and skinned his knee. Mama was always there to kiss away his tears and tell him that everything was fine. He was a good boy. Why wasn't Mama there now? Why wasn't Mama in his room holding him, kissing him, rocking him to sleep? Did turning five mean that Mama no longer cared if he was hurt? Did turning five mean that Mama did not love him anymore? Being five meant that he was a big boy. Being five meant that Daddy could hurt him and Mama didn't care anymore. Being five meant that he wasn't a good boy anymore. Being five meant that Daddy and Mama didn't love him anymore. Being five really, really sucked._

_He cried himself to sleep. He buried his face in his pillow so Daddy wouldn't hear him. He told himself that he would never ask Daddy and Mama for anything ever again. And he didn't. He told himself that no one would ever see him cry again. And they didn't. He was a big boy now._

**To Be Continued...**


	7. Chapter 6

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Thank you, **csipal**, **ligaras** and **Count Dracubeta** for hanging with me. I read a very lively and well-argued discussion at YTDAW some time ago where the participants tried to establish whether Mrs. Grissom lost her hearing when she was eight or when young Gilbert was eight. After much debate the issue was never fully resolved and each was left to their own interpretation.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Six**

Grissom roused from his restless musings utterly confused. He was cold, wet and hurt like hell. Damn, he hurt. Slowly the fog receded, his mind cleared and he remembered. An accident. He was trapped and all alone. Nobody knew where he was. But...he had been talking to someone, someone who made him happy and pushed away the loneliness, if just for awhile. But who? He tried to think but it was so difficult. He shakily brought his right hand up to wipe the sweat from his face and noticed that he was still clutching his cell phone. He squinted at the display.

"Sara?"

Sara almost wept with relief when Grissom's raspy voice whispered through her headphones. Archie had set her up with a spiffy hands-free device so she could keep an anxious ear tuned to Grissom without having to physically hold the phone to her head. She adopted her best Mae West voice to mask her steadily growing concern.

"Hey there, Big Boy."

Sara's response was so unexpected and her imitation so terrible that Grissom had no chance to suppress the laugh that wormed through his pursed lips. His body did not respond well to Sara's attempted levity and his ill-timed chuckles were strangled by wet, hacking, choking spasms that pinballed through his badly damaged chest and stole away his breath. Specks of blood-tinged spittle sprayed the accursed steering wheel. When he regained enough control to speak, he chided Sara for her mimicry.

"Funny. Don't. Hurts."

Sara had listened helplessly to Grissom's coughing seizure. Anger and guilt welled up within her frame – anger for feeling so damned helpless and guilt for causing him more distress.

"Sorry, Gris. I was just trying to cheer you up."

"'S okay," he slurred unsteadily. Breathing was a bitch. Talking and concentrating on Sara's words required an enormous amount of effort. The conversation was rapidly depleting his scant energy reserves but he could not, would not, willingly relinquish his only life line.

"You doing okay, Babe?" Sara asked softly.

"Mmm." The reply was noncommittal. "Talk...to...me?"

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Doesn't matter. Just...talk."

Sara's mind raced frantically as she searched for a nice, safe topic to discuss. They could always resort to hashing out the gangland shooting but she doubted that Grissom had the mental faculties available for something of that nature. What to do? What would be safe?

"Hey," she announced brightly. "You feel like playing a little game with me?"

"Hmmm."

Well, his answer was not exactly positive but she took it as a sign that he was willing to listen and possibly play along.

"Okay, here's the deal. It you had one wish, one chance to get anything in the world you ever wanted, what would you wish for?"

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Either Grissom had blipped out again or he was not pleased with her suggestion.

"C'mon, Gris. Play with me," Sara wheedled. "What's your heart's desire?"

"Grissom? Still there?"

"Thinking. Hurts."

"What hurts, baby?"

"Thinking."

Sara huffed a small chuckle at that. "Yeah, well maybe you're just trying to hard. What's the first thing that comes to mind? You think of anything yet?"

"Yep."

And, nothing. Just a one word answer. Even wounded, the man could be infuriating. Sara tempered her impatience to quip, "Well, are you going to keep me in suspense or are you going to tell me?"

"Can't."

"You can't?" Her exasperation was sliding to the forefront. "You know, that sort of defeats the whole purpose of us talking now, doesn't it? Why can't you tell me?"

"Promised." Grissom's tone was hard, flat and deadly serious. He did not make promises lightly and never went back on his word.

"Who'd you promise?"

"Me."

_Birthdays and Christmases came and went. He never asked for anything, never poured over the Sears and Roebuck catalog like the other kids constructing elaborate wish lists to take to Santa. Oh, there were things he wanted, things he would have given his two front teeth for, but he never told anyone. If he did not ask for anything or expect anything, he would never be disappointed. If he was not disappointed, then Father would not be disappointed with him. And if Father was not disappointed with him then maybe, just maybe, Mother and Father would love him again and he would not get hit anymore._

_He did not cry when the belt returned. Father lashed him with a single-minded fury but he did not cry. He accepted his punishment stoically, always politely thanked his father and retreated to his room to cry into his pillow. He was never really sure why he was punished. He was never really sure when Father would punish him. It was never consistent and things that were fine one day were major sins the next. He tried and tried to be the perfect son but somehow always fell short. He did not deserve to be loved. He always forgot something or did not do something exactly right and the belt would lash out._

_He did not cry when Mother finally lost all of her hearing. Father and Mother cried but he sat quietly in a chair and stared out the window. It really did not matter what he did because nobody was paying attention to him anyway. They were so wrapped up in themselves and their own grief and life drama that they failed to notice the straight-lipped curly-haired boy staring off into nothingness. They were so concerned about themselves that they forgot they had a son that might be suffering as well. They forgot. They forgot about him. He did not deserve to be loved. He cried himself to sleep that night._

_He did not cry when Father and Mother went out to dinner or to the movies and left him home by himself. He did not cry when Father and Mother went to picnics and other events where children were invited and he was left alone. He was forgotten, he was ignored. Father and Mother were so consumed by each other and trying to make the best out of Mother's disability that he ceased to exist. They never spoke to him, even at the dinner table. They never asked him how school had been or what he was studying, They never wondered what he was doing or who his friends were. They did not care about him or his so-called life. They had only time for each other, not for him, unless Father wanted to abuse him with the belt. His world had become as silent as Mother's. He lived in a tomb, a great giant sarcophagus. He often thought about running away, just packing up and heading out. Surely live in the cave he had discovered on one of his many afternoons combing the beach would be no worse than life in his house. Besides, Father and Mother would not miss him. They did even know he was around any more. They had forgotten about him. He did not deserve to be loved. His pillow was his only comfort, absorbing his tears and caressing his brow._

_He did not cry when Father died on the living room sofa while he was watching television. He stood straight and tall at the funeral, translating condolences for Mother like the dutiful son that he was and listened with a jaded ear while everyone talked about what a good man Father had been. He listened, dry-eyed, while all of his well-intentioned relatives told him that he had to be a good boy and not cry in front of Mother because it would just upset her. He listened to all of them prattle on and on and on about how he had to take care of Mother, about how he was the man of the house now, about how he had to be all grown up and responsible. There would be no more baseball or Boy Scouts. Mother needed him. Even at the tender age of nine he found all of this to be grossly ironic. Mama had abandoned him four years ago and now he was supposed to give up everything for Mother? He had to be there to comfort Mother. Where was Mama when he needed her? He did not deserve to be loved. He was a big boy, now. He was a man, now._

_After the funeral, after all of the uproar died down and life again had settled into a predictable routine, he made a decision. He waited until Mother was asleep and slipped out into the back yard. He had the big heavy book about plants and trees and a book of matches. He placed the tome on the patio, careful to keep it away from the dry grass, and created his own funeral pyre. This ritual was not for Father, it was not to help him deal with Father's death. Oh no. This funeral was for the little five-year-old boy who died the day he received the book and disappointed Father. This ceremony was for the little boy who died the first time he felt the bite of the black belt across his bare buttocks. This fire was for the little boy whose parents used to love him. He did not deserve to be loved, now. He returned to his room, the flames spent, and cried himself to sleep. He was a man, now._

_The Christmas after Father died, Mother got him his first bicycle. It sat under the tree next to Father's unwrapped sweater box. He acted surprised and full of joy – it was what Mother expected and wanted to see and he could not disappoint her. He might have been happy about the bike had it not been placed next to the reminder of Father, had it not been smartly posed to remind him of the day his childhood so abruptly ended and his parents stopped loving him. But, Mother wanted him to smile, so he smiled. Mother wanted him to be thrilled, so he acted thrilled. She told him that he could go for rides with all of his friends in the neighborhood. He did not tell her that he had no friends. He did not tell her that the other kids had deserted him long ago because he could not keep up. He was always left out of the fun because he had to take care of Mother and be a man. He took his bike outside and went for a ride while Mother watched. He kissed her and thanked her. And that night he went to his room and sobbed into his pillow._

Alone, aching and cold, Grissom mourned. He cried for the little boy that had to be a man. He sobbed for the little boy who never was, for the little boy who had withered away under the lashes of parental disappointment, for the little boy who could never be perfect, for the little boy who wanted his Daddy and Mama, for the little boy who did not deserve to be loved.

**To Be Continued...**


	8. Chapter 7

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Thank you, csipal, ligaras and Frankenbeta. I appreciate all of your hard work on my behalf.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Seven**

"Grissom?"

"Grissom!"

Someone was yelling at him. For the life of him, he could not figure out how he had erred this time. He was a good boy.

"Grissom!"

The disembodied voice was stridently shrill and laced with increasing irritation.

"Damnit, Grissom! It's Sara. Answer me, Grissom!"

"Sara..." It was a whisper, a hope and a prayer all rolled into a simple name.

"It's about time! Don't you ever do that to me again," Sara snapped. "You have to stay with me. No zoning out without warning me first." She knew that she was being irrational and behaving like a shrewish fish wife but he had scared the hell out of her when he would not answer. She had feared the worst and her pulse was racing out of control.

Grissom winced. Shit. He had made Sara mad. How could he have been so stupid? He did not want her to be angry with him. He did not want her to hang up and leave him all alone in the cold. Just once, he needed someone to stay with him. He needed her, even if she was just a voice on the telephone. He had to stay awake. He could not disappoint her. He started to panic. "Sorry. Didn't mean...to...make...you mad. Don't be mad. Good boy." His breathing while labored, was increasing with every word he spoke.

"Damnit, Grissom, I'm not mad," she yelled. "I was worried, I am worried." Sara took a deep cleansing breath. She had to settle down and keep Grissom calm. He was starting to hyperventilate and she could hear the despair dripping from he words as he continued to apologize, his remorse reverberating like a tired and well-rehearsed mantra. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..." Oh, God. That was it. That revelation, piercing moment of clarity struck Sara so quickly that her knees nearly buckled. Grissom was reciting his own personal rosary. Her heart wrenched in profound sorrow as she vividly pictured a very young Gil Grissom beseeching his father for forgiveness and receiving only corporal acts of contrition in response.

Her voice was much softer, much more intimate, when she was finally able to continue. "Gris? Shhh. It's okay, baby. Everything is okay, everything is just fine. I'm not mad at you. I know you're a good boy," she cooed. "You're a good man, Gris. You're the one who looks out for all of us, you're the one who takes care of all of us. It takes a good man to do all of that. Only a good man would send his team home and keep working so they can sleep. Only a good man would put the needs of his people above his own. You _are_ a good boy, Grissom, a _very _good boy."

Grissom answered with a noncommittal grunt, almost as if he was afraid to believe her. Perhaps he was but, if nothing else, at least Sara did not seem to be angry with him any more. For the first time in his life, someone had actually forgiven him. He was not going to be punished. Sara was not going to hang up and leave him to die alone.

"Listen, Gris. I've got some good news," Sara said with a hint of ill-disguised excitement. Archie has narrowed down the cell towers and should have your location pinpointed any minute now. Nicky, Greggo and I are already on the road heading towards Elko. We are coming, Gris, we are on our way. Do you understand? You have to hang on. Can you hang on for me?"

Dead air greeted her plea. "Grissom?"

"Grissom! Are you still with me?"

"Yeah," he coughed. "Still here. Not...going anywhere."

"Oh, you're a real funny guy, aren't you," Sara sneered sarcastically before growing serious once again. "How are you doing? Any change?"

"Cold."

Sara's heart ached; he was cold and alone, hurting and so confused. "I'm sorry, baby. We'll be there as soon as we can."

Grissom did not know why, but he had to ask. "Sara? Am...am...am I really your...baby? He was suddenly shy and uncertain. So much depended on her answer.

"Yeah," Sara sighed, "yeah, Grissom you are."

"Really? Promise?"

Sara knew that the answers to these questions were very important, a sort of litmus test. Grissom's ability to fight could very well hinge on her responses. She had no choice but to be frightfully honest.

"I promise."

"Protect me? Keep me safe?"

"Of course, baby. I'll protect you and take care of you."

"Won't hurt me?"

God, he sounded so young and unsure of himself, not a hint of the smug and confident scientist could be heard. He needed reassurance that someone cared, a hand to hold in the seeping rain.

"I will never hurt you, Gris."

"Need you, Sara."

"I know, baby. The guys and I will be there as fast as we can."

"No. Not guys. You. Need you."

"I'm on my way."

Grissom let his arm relax by his side. He wondered anxiously if Sara was sincere, if she was really coming for him. So many people had accepted invitations only to back out at the last moment. Would she do the same? She had promised, but so had the others. Would things actually turn out differently this time?

_He was a ghost in high school. He was the odd-ball kid who was intrigued by death and too damn smart for his own good. He was the freak with the deaf Mother and dead Father. He was the polite kid who never smiled or drew attention to himself. He rarely spoke unless he absolutely had to. He helped in the Coroner's Office after school. He had no friends and did not date. Girls only wanted to spend time with him so he could help them with their homework or be his partner on group projects. He did all of the work and they got the As. He wore his hair short when everyone else grew theirs long. He had tried to fit in with the style of the day but he was a skinny kid with a skinny neck. His hair did not get long. It got curly and bushy and he looked like a damned dandelion. He did not dress like everyone else. Mother thought that jeans, or dungarees as she derisively referred to them, were common. He wore sharply pressed chinos and plaid shirts. He stopped trying to fit in. It was a losing battle. He was a hopeless freak._

_He was an angry teenager but careful not to show his rage. As far as everyone was concerned, he was well-adjusted. Mother thought that he was handling puberty just fine. She thought that he fully accepted that his world was often as silent as hers, especially at home. Mother just thought that he was a quiet kid, wrapped up in his books and experiments. Mother had no idea that he was angry, that he cried himself to sleep, that she had helped to transform him into the freak that he was. He was angry. He would never be accepted and he would never fit in. He was a freak and none of his peers wanted to spend time with him away from academics. No one knew anything about him other than the fact that he was a flipping brainiac who could help them get good grades. No one ever bothered to ask what he liked, what made him happy or what kind of books and music he liked. He wasn't sure of all of the answers himself but he would have liked to have the chance to find out – a chance to share just a little of himself outside the hushed walls of his entombed soul. Nobody cared. Nobody gave a damn. He was a freak. He did not deserve to be loved. He cried himself to sleep._

_Once, a girl, a cheerleader named Ann, asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. He was sixteen-years-old, overloaded with raging hormones and had never been on a date. He was skinny and awkward and painfully shy. He was a freak. He was sixteen-years-old and had never come close to kissing a girl. He allowed himself to get excited about the dance, he allowed himself to hope. When the Friday of the dance rolled around he went off to school with a little extra spring in his step. Ann was going to give him a flannel shirt that matched hers and a big homemade bow tie thingy with her name on one side and his on the other. He practically skipped through the halls as he searched for his date. He finally spotted her up by the restrooms. Ann was wearing her flannel shirt and bow tie but some other guy's name had been sewn on. Her tie said "Mike", not "Gil". And some lanky jock type was hanging out next to her wearing HIS flannel shirt and bow tie. He was crushed, destroyed, but allowed no emotions to show. He gave his cruel would-be date a casual nod and went about his day as if nothing had happened. He endured the snickering behind his back without a crack. He somehow made it through the day and rode his hated bicycle home. There would be no hope for him, no anticipation of anything good, no excitement. He should have known better than to break his own rule of expectations and longing. He ran into his room, flung himself carelessly on his bed and sobbed harshly into his pillow. He was a freak. He did not deserve to be loved._

_Ann stopped by his house the next day to explain what had happened. He politely asked her in and brought her a cool beverage. He listened silently and respectfully as she told her tale. She really had wanted to take him to the dance but all of the other cheerleaders had made fun of her so she had asked the captain of the basketball team instead. He understood, didn't he? Her reputation was at stake. She had worked so long and so hard to fit in, to get into the right cliques, that she just could not risk being seen with him. She liked him but just not enough. They could still talk, be friends and do homework together, but she could never go out with him. Socially, he was a disaster. Everybody thought he was a freak. There was just no way they could ever date. He thanked her for coming over and walked her to the door. He continued to be polite when they ran into each other in the halls. He still helped her with her homework. He acted as if nothing had happened. And he cried himself to sleep. He was a freak and did not deserve to be loved._

_He asked a girl to prom when he was a senior. He had still never been out on a date and Mother was pestering him to go. He did not want to go to the prom, had no desire to go to the prom, but the whole high school social experience thing seemed so very important to Mother. She told him that if he would just try harder to fit in the other kids would not think he was such a big freak. Mother wanted him to be just like everyone else, to do all of the same things the other kids did, to be normal. His own mother thought he was a freak and was, as usual, disappointed in him. He had let Mother down yet once again. He did not deserve to be loved. He cried himself to sleep. _

_He wanted to make Mother happy so he screwed up his courage and haltingly asked a girl to prom, a girl from his advanced science class. Janie was almost as geeky as he was and he thought that he might actually have a chance with her because he never noticed any other guys hanging around her. He was very, very surprised when she accepted his stammering invitation. He gave her plenty of opportunities to back out, to save face, but she always assured him that she honestly did want to go out with him. Two days before the event he asked her what color her dress was. Mother told him that he had to get her a corsage and that said corsage had to match her dress. As he asked, he noticed that her eyes were red and that she looked as if she had been crying. Janie tearfully told him that she could not go to the prom because her grandmother had just passed and the funeral was going to be on Saturday, the day of the dance. She was really sorry because she had been looking forward to going with him. He nodded silently and politely offered his condolences. There was little else he could do. _

_He wandered aimlessly after school. He did not feel like facing Mother and trying to explain what had happened. Besides, if he stayed out later than usual she would erroneously assume that he was hanging out with his classmates, going out and being normal. Finally, tired and hungry, he trudged home. He ate supper, did his homework and went to bed. He cried himself to sleep. He was a freak. He did not deserve to be loved._

_Years later, when he was working as a coroner, he looked up Janie's grandmother. The old woman really had died two days before the prom. He went to the library and researched the obituary. The funeral had been scheduled the day of the dance. For the first time in his life he had not been lied to – he had not been given some lame excuse, some tired story. Maybe Janie had been sincere and wanted to go out with him. Or, maybe Janie had been just as desperate. It really did not matter anymore...water under the bridge and all of that stuff. _

It was funny, really, that he had even bothered to check out her story years after the fact. All those years, all those years that he had perfect access and he had never bothered to look up his own father's death certificate. Nobody ever told him why his father did not wake up that hot summer day so long ago, nobody ever told him why his father died. Father's death was always going to be an unsolved mystery in his mind. Grissom often wondered why he checked Janie's "alibi" but never looked into the death of his own father. Maybe he just did not care about Father. Father did not care about him; Father did not love him. Janie? Maybe, just maybe, had luck been on his side and things had just turned out a little differently, Janie could have been someone he could have cared about. Maybe, just maybe, had her grandmother not died when she did, Janie could have cared for him as well. Maybe, just maybe, he would not have been such a big freak. Maybe, just maybe, he could have found someone to care about him as well, someone to love him. Maybe, just maybe, he could have quit hiding behind his stone facade and stopped sobbing into his pillow at night.

**To Be Continued...**


	9. Chapter 8

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** A humble bow of appreciation to **csipal, ligaras** and, in honor of the upcoming MLB season...**The Designated Beta**. I must also thank **Domo Arigato** whose thoughtful conversation and gentle prodding brought to light a blatant oversight on my part that needed to be addressed. And, now that we have finally reached this point, I can also say thank you to **Gibby**. Her YTDAW challenge is what set this lunacy in motion.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Eight**

Grissom shifted painfully and tried to move his legs. The long dormant muscles in his thighs were involuntarily tensing and flexing, jumping and knotting, and he could not get comfortable...well, change positions enough to alleviate the pulsating cramps mercilessly massaging his quads. He almost welcomed the new source of torturous suffering as it aided in his struggle to remain alert and somewhat coherent for Sara. He had grown numbingly inured to his other crippling maladies and desperately sought to retain his sometimes fleeting grip on the present reality instead of retreating dismally into the bitter remnants of his life. As his thoughts fluttered and flitted like rapidly thrumming hummingbird wings, Grissom realized that he was adrift, wavering back once again, reliving moments that were best left buried in the stolid steel cages of his heart.

_As expected, he went off to college but, against Mother's wishes, he refused to live in the dorms. It was the first time he had found the courage to openly defy Mother, and it had felt good...right...finally doing something for himself instead of meekly acquiescing to the demands and expectations of another. He had long known that he would never fit in, never be one of the gang. He had stopped caring about social acceptance and resigned himself to a painful life of solitude and loneliness. The dorms would have been an unmitigated disaster. He would get picked on, teased and generally abused. He would lose the control over the emotions he had fought so hard to vanquish and that was something he could not do. He attended school close to home in case Mother needed him, but he was finally physically away. He lived in a dingy off-campus apartment that suited his awful existence. What did it matter where he lived? He spent most of his time in the library and it wasn't like he ever had any company. The only time he ever spent in his little squalid hole-in-the-wall was to eat electrocuted hot dogs, masturbate and cry himself to sleep._

_Sometime during his freshman year Mother told him about Ann. She had packed off her pom pons, and short, pleated cheerleading skirts to attend college somewhere up in the northern part of the state. She had still tried desperately to make the "right" friends and fit in. She went to all kinds of parties and sold herself out all in hopes of gaining social standing. Ann had tried too hard and ended up on a slab, dead from a heroin overdose. It was funny, really, in a perverse sort of way. Ann had been just as needy as he, but whereas he had shut down, withdrawn and focused on just surviving, she had chosen to dance on the edge of a blade and live just a little too much. He often wondered if it was accidental or if Ann could not stand playing the game any longer. Deep down, he knew. And yet...who was Richard the Lion Hearted and who was the Cowardly Lion? Did it take more courage to hide or escape?_

_He had no better luck with the fairer sex in college than high school. The girls only socialized with him because they needed to raise their GPAs. There was one girl, Rebecca, he thought really liked him. And he cautiously let himself care for her. He made an effort, tried to be more "normal" and fit in. He went to football games, coffee houses and tried to engage in small talk with complete strangers. He smoked cigarettes and went to concerts. He started looking forward to seeing her each day and changed his routine so that he could walk her to most of her classes. He was starting to experience a little happiness. The he found out what she told everyone in her house about him – around the Tri-Beta sorority he was known as the sixty-second man. It did not particularly matter to him that it was not true, it was not his male pride that was smarting from the cruel taunts and barbs flung his way. She had no way of knowing if he was a sixty-second man or not. She had certainly never popped his cork or turned his crank. Things had never progressed beyond the furtive peck on the cheek stage. No, what hurt was that it was Ann all over again. Rebecca could not handle the teasing she got from her sisters about spending time with the nerdy science geek so she had made things up, had told lies about him and about them. She said that she was just using him, that he meant nothing to her other than an A in her pre-med courses. She was no different than any other girl he had crossed paths with. Like the others before her, she could not bear to be seen with him because he was a freak. He did not deserve to be loved. He crushed out his cigarette and cried himself to sleep._

_Somehow against all odds and laws of nature he matured into a handsome man. He learned how to be charming. He discovered that he could flash his blue eyes, pout and smirk and probably lift any skirt he chose. He could have easily slept his way through the Coroner's Office and most of the police pool if casual sex was all that he had been after. _

_He met a woman named Michelle and Michelle seemed to accept him for what he was. He dated her, he courted her, he kissed and even made out a little with her. Life was good. His career was taking off and he had something to look forward to during his off-hours. He thought he loved her; had even said those three mysterious words to her. He had eventually proposed and was surprised and delighted when she accepted. He was excited. He was going to "make love" to her and maybe even experience fellatio. He had done an enormous amount of reading and research. He had a fairly good idea of what to do to satisfy Michelle sexually. For the first time since he was five, he was going to be totally naked._

_They met for lunch three weeks before the wedding, presumably to hammer out some last minute details. She was going on and on about the florist screwing up and not knowing if the bouquets would precisely match the exact lavender shade of the bridesmaids' dresses. He cared little for such details but they were important to Michelle so he listened attentively and even offered advice. They had gone to a nice restaurant because she deserved so much more than fast food or a dingy greasy spoon. They ate, they chatted, they laughed. Between dessert and the check, Michelle destroyed him. She told him that she was calling the whole thing off. Her friends had finally convinced her that he was nothing more than an embarrassment. His chosen field left little room for social advancement and Michelle wanted to quit her job, join a country club and have lunch with the girls. He could not provide that kind of leisurely life for her. She was sorry, she did love him, but it was just not enough. He could not make her dreams come true and give her everything she wanted. She was leaving to find someone better, someone with more to offer. He understood, didn't he?_

_Michelle placed her engagement ring on her dessert plate amidst her cheesecake crumbs and strode haughtily from the restaurant. She never looked back. He calmly paid the check, pocketed the ring and made his own escape. He returned to work believing that all of this was his fault because he had allowed himself to get his hopes up and pretend that he could ever be enough for anyone. He had allowed himself to dream and everything had been shattered. When he finally went home that evening, the apartment was practically bare. Michelle had picked over his possessions much as she had picked over his heart. All that was left was the bed, a chair and his books. She left enough things in the kitchen for him to get by with, but not enough for entertaining or sharing. It really did not matter a whole hell of a lot. He had no one to share with. He cried himself to sleep. He would never be enough. He did not deserve to be loved._

_There had been no more relationships after Michelle, just a host of first dates and sometimes, if he was very lucky, a second or even a third. Things had never progressed any farther than first base. He reconciled with Mother, finally realizing that she had not abandoned him. She either had not heard the horrible lashes of the belt or had been expressly forbidden by Father to offer solace. Mother had been terrorized as well, and they were inextricably intertwined by Father's lasting legacy of abuse. _

_He came to terms with his life and the fact the he was destined to be alone. He understood that the only avenue through which he would ever gain any measure of self-satisfaction or self-worth was his work. His job, his career, was all he had. And...it had become everything. True, it did not ease the loneliness or longings in his soul, but it was enough. He could exist and even, in a round about fashion, touch the lives of others for the better._

**To Be Continued...**


	10. Chapter 9

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** Sincere thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review thus far. Your time and efforts are greatly appreciated. **csipal**, **ligaras** and **Darth Beta** are the best.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Nine**

"Grissom? You hanging in there, baby?"

The man in question had been silent for quite some time and Sara was growing more anxious with each passing mile.

"Thirsty."

"Yeah," she commiserated, a touch of sympathy clouding her tone, "I'm sure you are. How's everything else?"

"Cramping. Don't... feel good," he mumbled, as if ashamed of his self-perceived weakness.

That was a serious admission for Grissom. He rarely spoke of affliction or discomfort so even if he downplayed his helplessness by simply stating that he did not feel good, Sara's uneasiness blossomed more fully.

"We're coming, Gris. We are on our way. Greggo is driving like a crazy man and Nicky is trying to crawl under the floor mat."

Grissom grunted with amusement, delighted with the oral picture Sara had painted for him. "Don't blame...Nick...I've ridden...with Greg. Not fun."

Sara laughed and felt the coiled tension ease just a bit. He was still with her and fighting for her. She could not help but marvel at his strength. Despite all of the vulnerability he had revealed and raw emotion he had shared with her throughout this harrowing ordeal, Grissom was still the strongest man she had ever met. She was flooded with new respect and engulfed with a warmer, stronger tide of love.

"Sara?" Grissom's voice was growing steadily weaker, more strained with each second ticking off of the clock. Sara was having difficulty deciphering the subtle nuances of timbre in his tone that had always spoken to her more vividly than his actual words. She could not miss the tentativeness with which he had murmured her name. Something important was bubbling to the surface. Grissom was about to launch a broadside and Sara braced for impact.

"Hmmm?"

"Love me? A little?"

Sara did not hesitate. "Nope." Her response was glib, bordering on flippant. Despite the gravity of the circumstances, Sara could not resist the urge to toy with him. He was going to have to work for this one; six long years of playing the line, or reeling her in and letting her run, had taken a toll. She had made one major concession already by admitting that he was her baby. It was his turn, he was going to have to say it first.

Grissom's chest exploded with an excruciating lethal dose of pain. Why did he have to ask that? Why could he not continue to pretend, continue to dream? He was cold and frightened and so alone; a terrified child at last summoning the flagging courage to peek beneath the bedskirt to face the omnipresent monster always lurking, always dwelling just beneath the slats. He was a quivering little boy again, jumping at the slightest creak in the floorboards, seeking a warm hand to grasp and help him battle the darkness. All he wanted was for someone to love him, for Sara to love him. His oldest, ugliest demon had brutally materialized in a mangled rental car in the middle of nowhere. How pathetically appropriate, how devilishly ironic; a fitting exclamation point to the ruin that was his life.

The intense physical agony he had been pushing back for the last several hours was a tickle compared to the white-hot lance currently piercing his heart. He had always known, with morbid certainty, that Sara could, and most likely would, destroy him. More than any other person he had ever allowed to peek at the freak within, Sara had the absolute power to carelessly flay him into shuddering strips of worthless flesh, to shatter the last of his fragile humanity. He had made one major miscalculation, however. He had not known that Sara's rejection would make the pain inflicted by Father's heavy black leather dress belt comparable to the stroke of a feather duster.

"'S okay. Not...not...surprised," he finally managed to stammer. Grissom was struggling to keep his tone neutral and detached. He did not want Sara to realize the absolute devastation her single casual, unfeeling word had wrought. He did not want her to know that she was the executioner who had just gleefully signed his death warrant. He did not want her pity. He could not handle her concern. All he wanted was to be allowed to slip away into the night with a single shred of dignity intact.

"Huh?" Sara was taken off guard by Grissom's response. Surely he knew that she was just messing around, that she had not been serious. Not even Gris was that clueless. Or was he? A quick pang of fear shivered through her soul when Grissom continued in a carefully controlled monotone. He had taken her literally, accepted her word at face value. He truly believed that she did not love him.

"Nobody...ever did...does."

"WHAT are you talking about? Nobody ever did or does what?"

"Love me. Don't deserve..." He could not complete the thought, could not give it a firm voice, for to do so would somehow make it more real, something made of brick and mortar as opposed to an angry shout relentlessly vibrating through his consciousness dictating his every emotional move. He had always believed, with whatever innocence life had left him, that if he refused to give his inner spectre corporeal substance then perhaps he could somehow alter his fate, change his destiny. It was the one hope he had clung to all of the years and now it was vanishing, another sand castle washed away by the tide. Nothing and no one could save him now.

"Gris, what don't you deserve?"

Damn, she just never gave up. Sara was going to make him say the awful words. Fine. If she wanted to humiliate him as her final revenge, so be it. He owed her that, the grim satisfaction of complete degradation, considering how badly he had treated her at times. All things must end and the circle would finally be closed. He would die as he had lived, broken and bloody, void of hope, untouched by love.

"I...don't...deserve...to...be...loved."

Grissom furiously ground the truth through tightly gritted teeth and blood-caked lips. The beast had finally been set loose. He sniffled. The tears began to flow. He did not care if Sara heard him or not. Nothing mattered anymore. His tears coursed harder as he tuned out Sara's voice and let go of his sole remaining childhood dream, one that he had selfishly guarded with a miser's zeal. He had never removed the shrink wrap or slit open the package to examine it by the light of day. It was all he had left, one last hope that someday he would find someone to love him, to kiss away the tears, to tell him that everything would be okay, to hold him, just hold him. He glanced at the phone in his hand and thumbed the end call button. It was over. His life had come to its bitter end.

_He was almost fifty and still a virgin in so many ways. His heart, while shattered and stony, had never been touched. His heart had never seen the light. He wrapped it in an iron-clad condom and existed. When the pain became too unbearable, when the overwhelming need for just a little warmth and compassion caused an overload of sensation and emotion, he would jack off, clean himself up and cry himself to sleep. He was a freak. He did not deserve to be loved._

_He honestly did not care that he was a physical virgin. Getting laid was not high on his list of priorities. Sure, he was insanely curious and quite certain that he would enjoy the experience immensely, but he wanted so much more than that. Hell, if all he wanted was to shoot his wad he could have hired a professional years ago. He just wanted more. He did not want a one-night stand, he wanted a relationship. He wanted someone to talk to, to hold him, to make him feel special, to let him know that he was worth the effort, that he could be enough. If he got some action, well, that would be a bonus. He wanted someone willing to expend the time and energy to get to know the little boy and very frightened man behind the quirky, quipping scientist. He wanted someone who would accept him for all of his failures and shortcomings and not judge him too harshly because he was not perfect. He wanted someone to like him because of who he was and not what he was perceived to be, someone who believed in him. For the first time in a long time, maybe since his fifth birthday, he wanted, needed to be loved. He was so tired of being alone. He was so tired of having to live in the cold. He had fallen in love and that had never happened before. He did not know how to be in love. He did not know how to love. He was afraid._

**To Be Continued ...**


	11. Chapter 10

**Title:** Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing:** GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** A very, very heartfelt thank you to everyone who hung with me to the bitter end. It has been an exhilarating journey. One more time...**csipal**, **ligaras** and **Master Beta**? I could not have done this without you. A special thank you to **Golffer5** and **Domo Arigato** for all of the encouragemnt, conversation and support.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet.

**Chapter Ten**

Sara heard Grissom sniffle right before he hung up on her and felt an icy talon of fear shred her intestines and claw at her stomach. With one simple word, one that was meant to be flirtatious and playful, she had unwittingly destroyed all hope to which he had been clinging. He was reaching out, vainly grasping for some warmth, and she had heartlessly, stingingly slapped his hand away. She had been joking, damn it, had fully intended to finish her flip snip by telling him the truth. He had to know that she loved him; she had already admitted that he was her baby. How could he have taken her seriously? She had just wanted to tease him for a moment before spelling everything out letter by letter. He may have tugged her around on a leash for years, manipulated her and treated her like a dung beetle at times - actually, he would have probably treated a dung beetle better - but what she had just done to him was unintentionally cruel. She was not a cruel person, it was not within her to be cruel. A moment too late she realized that the pain Grissom was suffering was not just physical. He had ventured into some horrendously frightening caverns of his own battered psyche and she had shattered his dreams; stolen his only reason for survival. She had promised him, promised him that she would protect him and keep him safe. What had she just done?

She started punching her speed dial in agitation, trying to get him back. As soon as the rings cycled through to voice mail she disconnected and tried again. Her persistence paid off. Grissom finally answered on the fifteenth try.

"Gris?"

The only response she received was a little snot-filled grunt.

"Grissom, listen to me," she began desperately. She had to make him understand. "You DO deserve to be loved. Everybody deserves to be loved, baby. Even you, Especially you."

"No!" Grissom barked. He was fading fast and he knew it. He had to explain, had to make things right with Sara before he died. He did not want her to carrying around any misplaced guilt because of him. He had to make sure that her conscience was clear. He owed her some peace, a fresh start, a chance for something he had never had...a chance to find love. "Not worth effort. Never enough. Disappoint...everyone."

Christ, who had hurt him so much? Who or what had made him believe those terrible things. This went so much further than what she had originally deduced given his scant clues. She was going to have to come clean, go all the way and lay her cards down on the virtual table. A little boy peeping from behind Grissom's aloof exterior was calling feebly to her, a very frightened and needy little boy who just wanted someone to love him, a little boy whose heart had been broken one too many times.

"Gris, I can't just love you a little. It doesn't work that way, baby. It is an all or nothing thing with me. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Grissom was struggling to wrap his beleaguered mind around what Sara was trying to tell him. This was all so very confusing. He needed to think. He needed to sort this out. He had nothing to lose save the remainder of his male pride by asking one more time but he had to give her an avenue of escape. The gentleman in him had to offer her a chance to back out before any sort of commitment could be made, before a line could be crossed and thus forever erased. She had a right to know, regardless of how much the admission might shame him.

"Nothing to give you." It was true. All he had to offer was himself and he was no prize. He could never come close to ever fulfilling anyone's conception of the ideal man. She deserved so much more than a socially inept, emotionally stunted, fifty-year-old virgin.

"All I want is you," Sara responded in a clear, honest voice.

"Really?"

Sara nearly cried with relief when she detected the minute glimmer of hope in his question. He had gotten the message. He might not fully believe it yet, but he had figured out what she had been trying to say without actually saying the words.

"Yeah," she sighed. "For a long time now."

Her simple statement was so much more than he had ever dared to dream. He wanted to launch into a flowery declaration, quote the romantic poets, sing her praises to the skies. A half-groaned syllable was all he could muster. He hoped it would be enough.

"Too."

They shared a quiet moment, each silently rejoicing in what the other had warily shared.

"Sara? You...first one...only one."

Sara was floored by his unexpected revelation. Was she really his first love? His only love? Grissom could not, would not lie about something like that; could not, would not throw out something like that because he thought it was what she needed to hear. He simply did not possess the strength to hide from her anymore.

Her voice was clogged with unshed tears. "Gris..."

"Just...just...hold you?"

"If that's what you need, baby." She was incapable of denying such a simple, lonely request.

"Haven't...been hugged...since five."

A single tear slid down Sara's cheek as the import of Grissom's simple statement hit her full force. She had been correct; he had been abused and neglected as a child. The rest of it she was not so sure about. She was certain about one thing, however. He was just as fucked up as she. God, what a team they made.

"Gris, I will hold you as long as you want. We can go home, cuddle under some blankets and watch old movies if you want."

"Just want...need...to touch you."

"Hey..."

"Mmmm?"

Grissom was failing. He was not going to emerge victorious from this final battle and she knew it. She was losing him. Time was running out.

"I love you, Grissom."

"Too."

Nick and Greg shared an uncomfortable glance in the front seat of the SUV. Tension had been escalating to alarming levels as fast as Sara's usually calm and cool composure had been eroding. Each successive conversation had left her a little more defeated, a little more anxious and a hell of a lot more frightened. They felt dirty, like a couple of tawdry voyeurs, speaking to Sara only when necessary so that she could focus every tendril of her rapidly depleting energy stores and tenacious attention on Grissom. The last exchange they had overheard was not meant for public consumption and it pained the guys that circumstances had necessitated that a first shared proclamation of love from two very private people had to occur in front of witnesses.

Sara turned her head toward the window and tears rolled down her wan cheeks as she feigned interest in the passing scenery. Nick peeked furtively over his right shoulder, noticing with a shudder that she had removed the headset, her only touchstone to Grissom, before venturing, "Sara?" His question was so soft that she could easily ignore him if she chose. "You going to be okay?" His voice was filled with compassion and he truly did not expect her to respond. He knew the answer.

"He told me...he told me...I am the first and only woman he has ever loved." She ruthlessly swallowed a sob, steeling her wavering emotions into some semblance of control. "Greg, drive faster. I have to find him. I promised him..."

Sara's next exclamation nearly brought the two men out of their seats as she started pounding on the window to emphasize her words. "Look! See it?" she all but screamed. "The mangled guard rail? This has got to be the right spot."

Greg practically stood on the brake pedal as he brought the unwieldy SUV to a shrieking, screeching stop of smoking rubber. The truck wobbled precariously as it navigated the same sudden drop in grade that had started Grissom's descent into hell a few hours earlier.

Somewhere in the distance above and behind him, Grissom heard the hot squeal of brakes. Was it Sara finally coming to save him? The persistent pessimist within would not allow him to get his hopes up too high. She would never find him in time and he was going to die in this fucking mangled death trap with its nonfunctional airbags and defective seatbelts. It was too late...too late. Not even Sara could save him now.

Sara leapt out of the quaking vehicle before it had fully wobbled to a stop and was sliding violently down the slope before Nick and Greg were able to unfasten their safety belts and throw open the heavy doors. She was wet and muddy and did not care. She could see a tangled heap of steel resting forlornly in the gloomy distance. All that mattered was finding Grissom.

She fell full bore into the metal, wrenched open the passenger door and wormed into the empty bucket seat of the little economy car. She wriggled atop the console in an effort to get close enough to touch Grissom. She searched frantically for a pulse and placed her hand over his mouth to make sure he was still breathing. She choked with relief. She was not too late. He was still alive. He was in bad shape, but he was alive and had never looked better. Her tears fell unnoticed as she gently cradled his bloody head against her left shoulder. She ran her fingers through his sodden gray hair while whispering his name and dropping feather light kisses on his face. His eyes fluttered open briefly, wondering who had found him, who was protecting him, who was loving him. It was Sara - always Sara. He mumbled her name and was rewarded with a smile. A Sara smile. He groped for her hand and sighed with blissful satisfaction when his large paw was cradled by her warmth.

Throughout the tedious and often painful chore of extracting Grissom from his iron and fiberglass coffin, Sara remained by his side. The medics and firefighters were forced to work around her. She refused to relinquish her grip. He needed to be held, to be hugged and she was not going to abandon him. She maintained the hand to hand contact as the basket made it's way up the mountainside and clambered into the ambulance to perch next to his gurney, touching, always touching, anything she could reach without hurting him or hindering the efforts of the medics. She touched and soothed and crooned words of love...she called him baby and told him that she would take care of him, would keep him safe. She whispered all of the things that he had wanted to hear for so long, things he had not heard since he was a very young child. She loved him. He was her baby. Maybe, just maybe, he could let her all the way in. Maybe, just maybe, he could give her his virginity and be completely naked with her. Maybe, just maybe, the inscription Lois had written in Greg's book applied to him as well. Maybe, just maybe, the best was yet to come.

Grissom finally let go. Tears streamed down his face as he quietly slipped into the darkness. Somewhere, deep in a forgotten recess of his craggy heart, a chasm he thought buried these many long and desperate years, the little five-year-old boy finally smiled.


	12. Epilogue

**Title: **Race Among the Ruins

**Author:** Cropper

**Pairing: **GSR

**Rating:** Mature for Profanity

**Disclaimers:** Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.

**A/N:** I am flying by the seat of my pants this time…no betas…so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**Summary:** Too little sleep and too much sleet

**Epilogue**

2 Months Later… 

Sara sighed wearily as she twisted the key and unlocked the door. She entered the house and leaned her back heavily against the solid wooden structure as she took a deep cleansing breath. Finally. It was finally over. Another wretched shift had thankfully passed and all she had the will to contemplate was a shower and some much-needed sleep. The two months that had crept by following Grissom's horrendous accident had been extraordinarily difficult and painful. She had not been sleeping well and whatever brief snatches she had been able to find were plagued with frightening slow motion replays of the little rental car smashing down the sleet-encrusted slope, ruthlessly stealing her one hope at happiness, at love.

She was not the only member of Graveyard struggling to cope with Grissom's loss. Work was just not the same without the eccentric Bugman rumbling through the halls. There were no more quips, no more quotes, no more random espousals of seemingly meaningless factoids…no more anything. Grissom was gone and he was never coming back. They were all hurting and struggling to adjust. Catherine had temporarily been promoted to lead the shift as a frantic nationwide search for a suitable and permanent replacement for Grissom had failed to yield acceptable results thus far. It was strange – when the team had been split and Catherine put in charge of swing, Ecklie seemed to have all the confidence in the world in her supervisory abilities. However, without Grissom's presence, both Ecklie and the Sheriff feared that the lab would lose its lofty position as the #2 lab in the country. Rightly or wrongly, the powers that be were unwilling to let the lab's reputation rest upon Catherine's shoulders.

Catherine was taking the loss of faith with regard to her abilities very, very personally. Working for her had migrated from merely being laborious into a full-fledged nightmare. Catherine has transformed into a callous ball buster of the nth degree and hounded the team relentlessly. Nothing was good enough, the turn around from collection to analysis was not fast enough and she spent most of her time watching over their shoulders like Big Brother gone bad. She occasionally did field work, if she deemed the crime to be high-profile and thus deserving of her skills and possible media exposure. There was no pleasing the woman and she was, by and large, unwilling or unable to offer any support. Grissom might not have been the most socially adept supervisor, but he never turned aside a request for help or refused to support his team. Graveyard Shift was foundering listlessly in a rudderless rubber raft that was quickly taking on water.

And, if all of that were not bad enough, the cases Sara had been forced to work constituted one excruciating hell-fest after another. It seemed that every psycho dirtball sociopath had decided to migrate to Sin City to open his/her own sadistically specialized little murder parlor. As things stood, the killing grounds were close to surpassing the sheer number of tacky drive-thru wedding chapels. All in all, work really sucked and Sara especially dreaded the start of each new shift. Not only did she realize that some new and heretofore unimaginable horror awaited her, but also because it was then, when assignments were passed around, that she felt Grissom's lost most acutely. The lab was just not the same and much of her zest for her job had perished in that tangled heap of metal on the slope of the nameless, faceless mountain.

Sara stumbled to the shower to scald away the fear, deceit and despair permeating her body following the long and terribly lonely night. The blisteringly hot water sluiced away the sins of others; she watched them mingle and join with the remnants of shampoo and body wash before swirling down the drain forever. Like a snake, she had shed her skin and emerged, not anew, but renewed. After a quick session with a fluffy Turkish bath towel, she hurriedly donned her girly-girl hot pink, lime green and brown plaid drawstring pajama pants and matching oversized pink t-shirt and, at long last, staggered to the bedroom in search of rest.

Sara paused in the doorway and took a moment to greedily consume the sight within. Grissom. He was sound asleep, propped against the headboard with two pillows stuffed carelessly behind his back. His glasses were still perched atop his nose and some disregarded novel lay haphazardly across his blanket-covered lap. The still-burning bedside lamp cast a soft illuminating glow about his healing features and rumpled gray hair and Sara knew that she had never seen a more beautiful sight. He was alive; a little battered and would probably never regain enough strength in his knees to return to field work, but he was alive. That was all that mattered. She took a moment to silently thank a God in whose existence she scarcely believed for taking care of Grissom and watching over him throughout his harrowing ordeal. She quietly snapped off the light and placed both his book and reading glasses on the nightstand before walking around the bed to snuggle into his right side.

Grissom roused at her touch and, after allowing Sara to help him maneuver back down in a prone position, pulled her close and nuzzled her damp hair. "Hi, honey. Good shift?" he asked between soft kisses across her forehead.

"Oh, the usual," Sara managed through a yawn. "Just trying to stay a step ahead of Catherine and the bad guys."

"Hmmm," he commiserated and even as he sought out her lips for a pillowy soft kiss, Sara blindly and methodically worked the buttons of his pale blue pajama top until she was able to pull back both halves to reveal the smooth skin beneath. This had become one of her new rituals…huddling as close to his heart as physically possible. He had flat lined three times in the ambulance and twice more on the operating table. Five times she had come perilously close to losing him and needed the aural reassurance of his strong heart beat to lull her into slumber every night.

Few words were spoken, but few were needed. They had said everything that needed to be said and thoughts and emotions were conveyed through touch and glances. It was enough, for now. They had their entire future to hammer out the details of their relationship and for now allowed themselves the sheer luxury of basking in the warm contentment of each other's presence. They had waited a lifetime and, for now, this was enough. The future, their future, was vast and unknowable and brimming with infinite blissful possibilities. They slept and dreamed and whispered words of love. And it was enough.

For now.


End file.
